Shattered
by Pantz
Summary: It was never a war about good and evil. It was a fight to save a dying world struggling for a final breath of life. It's what made the Death Eaters your heroes. Gryffindors never did understand that.


**Shattered**

When he was seventeen, he changed your life.

Not in the way that your world was black and he opened your eyes and showed you the world because he loved you.

Not in the way that you were broken and he took the pieces of your heart and fixed them anew.

He changed your life in the way that when you were seventeen, he shattered your soul.

Of course, you would never admit it. Of course not. You are a Slytherin and strong and resilient. You hold your head up high and sit in chairs with perfect posture as you smirk at Gryffindors with your all knowing eyes.

You were once one of the beautiful people of Hogwarts.

But that seems like a whole other world now.

A world of diamonds and intrigue and sparkling ambitions.

A world lavish with the old ways each and every one of you try to hold onto with dear life, only to realize that all the intricacies that make up who you all are have slowly been slipping through your very fingers.

Soon there will be nothing left of that devastating beautiful world you have known your entire life.

It's what he was fighting for all those years ago. What they all were fighting for.

It's that small detail that Gryffindors never could understand. Radical they may be, but the Death Eaters fought to defend a way of life slowly becoming obsolete. They were the heroes of your world because they championed the dying lifestyle none of you could ever give up.

It wasn't just about muggles, it was the last struggle of power between the old and the new.

And then all was lost.

The new triumphed. Potter was displayed in all his heroic glory and the heroes of your life were thrown into the cells of hell.

A new elite rose within the wizarding world, new families walked to the steps of power, and those who have ruled for centuries were cast aside as dark wizards.

Everything you had ever known was taken from you.

When you see him, you try not to tell him what it is like on the outside.

_Draco, you look well today._

_I saw your mother just last week. She's… She's doing well and sends her love._

_I…_your voice would become quiet as you suck in a breath._ I send my love too, Draco._

You would look at him, anticipating any reaction, but his blank eyes would look at you as if he couldn't understand a single word.

He stared right through you.

A few times over the years, you thought that when your world finally collapsed so did any life that was inside of him.

Some people would rather be dead then live in the society of today.

The new elite have none of the grace of your ancestors.

They're gaudy, too blind in their own triumph that they cannot understand the importance of scheming and claiming and holding onto a lifestyle they now call their own.

They live in your manors and use your house elves and try to act with the sophistication innate inside of you.

But their every gesture is ripe with the need to prove they belong in a world that has always been yours.

The war may have been won, but every day they work hard to prove that they deserve their triumph as you eye them with a superior glance and walk with the dignity of your world that they could never imitate and never learn.

What they don't realize is that the very characteristics that made your world beautiful are inside of you. So they may have everything you once called your own but in your eyes they'll forever be the second class citizens and you the royalty.

Their status is tainted by your world's ghosts.

You try to visit him once a month.

It never works out, but you try to.

Over the three years since he was sentenced, you've come to him around once every six months. You sit in front of his cell, your fingers curled tightly on the bars, and try to make him look at you.

His eyes are haunted by the past and his body so thin you wonder if he would break at a touch.

His cheek bones jut out, his eyes have sunk into his head, yet his head is held high with the dignity of your people.

He has forgotten who he was but he cannot forget the pride of his world.

_Draco,_ whispered helplessly as your face leans in between two bars and your arm sneaks through another hole and you touch him. A tear sneaks through your eyes as the small dreams in your mind about what would happen _this _time fade away and all your left with is the memories of this boy you once loved.

_Do you know who I am, Draco?_

You have asked him this twice.

The first time was your first visit to Azkaban. You looked into his haunted eyes and shivered under his blank stare and you wondered if he could see you.

Seconds passed into minutes and you had thought, once, that you did not know the dementors poison worked so quickly.

Then he laid a weak hand on your arm and whispered, _Pansy_. And in his eyes, there was a slight sparkle that he could never forget you, never _you_.

Even if it wasn't your name, he would remember your laugh or your smile or even the touch of your hair beneath his fingers, but he would remember _something._

And that dream faded away with all the others.

After three years, he cannot remember a single detail of who you are.

And he shattered your soul the moment you realized he could not remember that he loved you.

That was the second time you asked that question. You were seventeen, both times the childish question left your lips. And you were seventeen when you realized that when you lost the war, you lost _everything_.

And after three years, it never gets any easier to face him knowing each time you're going to have to hold out your hand and say,_ Hello Draco. Hi, it's me. It's Pansy._

And every time he fixes you with the same broken stare as you look down and whisper, _It's so very nice to meet you, Draco._

And then he looks at you and says,_ You have my mother's eyes._

A single tear falls down your cheek as you nod your head and smile.

The thing is, Narcissa has bright blue eyes. Yours are a stormy gray.

You don't tell him this, though.

Instead you reach your arm through the bars and touch his hand.

_Thank you,_ you whisper.

End

A/N: Disclaimer, everything from HP books belongs to JK Rowling.


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